


The Ghosts of Streamcroft

by vallhund



Series: Wynafred Rustin [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8508013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallhund/pseuds/vallhund
Summary: In the Westeros of 1935 AC, more than seventeen centuries after the War of the Five Kings, tales of dragons and direwolves have faded into myth, but monsters still roam the land.When a half-dead boy speaking only the Old Tongue stumbles into Maidenpool, Constable Wynafred Rustin must track down the mystery behind his family’s death. But as she is drawn into geopolitical intrigue and the looming shadow of war, she realizes that the implications of her investigation could have consequences beyond anything she could have imagined.





	

 

Rain cascaded off Maidenpool’s shale roofs, nearly flooding Wynafred’s low-topped boots as she prowled along the cobbled streets of the old city. Many of the houses went back to medieval times— _sometimes, I think the plumbing does as well—_ and the mullioned windows were deceptively cheerful. The light from one flashed off Wynafred’s badge when she banged on a barred shop door.

“Karstone?”

No answer. _Probably gave me the slip again._ Wynafred had been tracking an arms trafficker for nearly a month now, and strongly suspected that Robb Karstone was laundering his money. The old pawn dealer’s shop was notorious for its spotty hours and spottier clientele, and the Maidenpool police chief had warned her that the place had been fingered in multiple investigations over the past four decades. _I’m surprised he doesn’t give up._

“Officer Rustin?”

Wynafred’s hand almost flew to her nightstick before she recognized the voice. Karstone stood three feet to her side, wrapped in a long fisherman’s coat.

“I could have brained you,” she scolded. “You know how jumpy I get around your doorstep.”

He laughed a little. “I suppose. What brings you here?”

“What do you think?”

“I honestly have no idea.” She realized for the first time that Karstone was probably older than her grandfather in Darry. “I haven’t had a loan shark try to wash the blood and broken fingers off his gains since I turned one in last year, and I was under the impression that the National Law Service wasn’t cooperating with the Tyroshi on ale rings anymore.”

“This is about Alyk Coldwater.”

His eyebrows rose. “Carry on.”

“The Vance-Sarsfield-Velaryon Treaty prohibits supplying arms to either side in the Civil War in the Vale. Coldwater is believed to be running machine guns to the Republican Guard in Runestone.”

Karstone laughed a little. “Alyk Coldwater died a week ago.”

The shock must have shown on her face, as he smiled a bit. “I gather you’re not used to being caught off guard like that. My son-in-law’s brother came across his boat drifting in the Bay of Crabs. Coldwater was there, minus his head.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

Karstone shrugged. “I thought you’d have heard from spies in the Vale. Arthur would have towed it in, but the boat was—not in Riverlands waters.”

_I’m sure._ Poaching from Vale fisheries had been a problem since the massacre at Gulltown set off the war fifteen years ago. “So he left it?”

“Burned it. He figured the man should at least have a burial at sea.”

_Logical._ “No idea who did it?”

Karstone shook his head. “Probably the side he wasn’t selling to. Or someone he screwed over. In my experience, arms dealers don’t last very long.”

“He was in his twenty-fifth year of work.”

“Guess it caught up with him.” Karstone stretched his arms behind his back. “I don’t want trouble with you, Rustin, but I have nothing more on Coldwater.”

“I believe that.” She did, but Wynafred often found that liars would experience a slump of relief when she said that. Karstone didn’t. “Have a good evening.” She shook the rain from her coat and began to walk toward the water. Her hotel was half an hour away, but Wynafred had spent nearly two days on a train from Atranta, and her legs were stiff.

She didn’t make it there.

Near the harbor, the houses drew back, revealing the broad sandstone quays of Maidenpool. The East and Central Quays were afloat with fishing boats of every type under the sky. On the massive West Quay, closest to the ocean, small Trident wherries and immense steamers competed for space as longshoremen loaded and unloaded goods. The sheer size of the quays never failed to surprise Wynafred, who had grown up a few streets away from the small docks of King Harroway’s Town. Yet the newspaper slipped under her door that morning had revealed that the lord mayor intended to propose a new seaport outside the old city, nearly three times the size of the current docks, to keep tramp steamers out of Lys and Yi Ti from choosing Duskendale instead. _Foolish, that. Duskendale will never have the Trident at its back._ She remembered hearing one of her lyceum teachers talk about how a third of the trade in Westeros passed along the Trident.

“Officer!”

Wynafred was pushed out of her reverie by a shout from the East Quay. A man was running toward her, an old fishing hat clutched in his hand. She considered explaining that she was technically National Law Service, but realized it would be lazy. “Yes?”

“Yohn just came in off the North Bank. Someone was drowning—he’s hurt.”

The man turned around and ran back before Wynafred could ask what he meant, forcing her to sprint after him. A few fishmongers turned to watch curiously as she followed the fisherman down the middle of the East Quay, which was crowded with carts and lorries waiting for the day’s catch.

Close to the end of the quay, a small crowd of weathered men in mackintosh coats were surrounding a much younger man, who knelt over a prone figure. Stopping as she reached the group, Wynafred saw that the unconscious person was a boy barely older than fifteen, with long stringy hair. The strangest thing, though, was his clothes: he wore a ragged tweed shirt and torn pants of a kind Wynafred had never seen, woven from a rough brown fabric. _Is that pure wool?_

The young fisherman— _Yohn, I presume—_ turned to face her: up close, his face seemed well on the way to resembling his neighbors. “He was adrift in a coracle on t’other side of the river, passed out. Boat was fine, but he ain’t.”

Kneeling, she realized that the boy had a strange blue pattern drawn across his face, all circles and what looked like plants. “How close to the other side?”

Yohn turned a little red. “About four boat lengths out. I was ten, though. Had to go in close to see what was wrong.”

_He’s lucky someone didn’t shoot him from the shore._ “Has someone called for an ambulance?”

Another fisherman nodded. “Soon as Yohn run up t’flag, we rang f’ doctor.” At least, Wynafred thought that was what he said; his Bay of Crabs accent was so thick that he might have given her a recipe for stew. “They’re on t’way.”

Listening, Wynafred could almost hear a siren. “Good. I’ll stay until they get here.” She found her eyes straying back to the boy's face.  _A Valeman. No Valeman has crossed into the Riverlands since they closed the borders at the beginning of the war._

For some reason, she sensed he would not be the last.


End file.
